Fearless Genre Warriors

by Steve Lockley

  ‘I will give her, Kojo’s son, only if you pass the trials, prove yourself worthy of our treasure, swanlike star of our own home.’ Kommi’s eyes were glowing with pleasure, with pride—but also with hope that this young corbie, this wealthy son, might be the one to pass the tests, to win the hand, to deserve the child of our hearts.

  ‘Try me, Kommi, test my mettle. I will prove to be worthy of your prize.’ A smile broke over his face, but did not reach his eyes. I should have known then, but I was blinded too, blinded by the wide white smile, by the thought of all that wealth, riches to shelter our little swan forever, to keep her hands so soft and fair.

  Kommi leaned out from the window, rested his hands upon the sill. ‘I will let you have my daughter if you can accomplish much. No simple farmer will win her hand, no laborer will take her home.’

  ‘Challenge me, Kommi. For your beautiful swanlike daughter, much will I prove. Any feat will I undertake to have the white-winged beauty at my door.’

  ‘Here’s a task, mighty simple, any lad in knee pants could fulfill it. You must shoot a star from heaven, any of the twinkling lights between the shifting clouds. On one foot must you complete this, with a single arrow at first try.’ Kommi smiled to relish the sight, seen only a time or two before, the crestfallen suitor with longing looks, cap in hand, heading home.

  But this korppi did not falter, fixed his cap down on his head, slung his bow over his arm, and walked into the fields to await nightfall. One by one the household folk gathered to watch, some pretending they had work, or that the late summer afternoon was perfect for small tasks of mending and sewing. The brothers, the sisters gathered, curiosity lighting their faces. Only she, our swan, our maiden, sat alone by the fire, spinning wool, for she could not bear to see what happened, could not stand to wait for night.

  When at last the twilight gave way to evening’s purple hue, all who could were gathered there to await the test of mettle, to try the lad of raven hair. Unconcerned, he gazed at the star lights, as if to find the perfect one. All the pinpoints sparkled overhead like white pebbles in a pool. The household joined together, looked upward to see the night sky. When at last the time was right, when the black-haired one had chosen, then he reared back on one leg, stretched his bow until it curved like an ox yoke, until the tension made his sinews strain, held it just one moment longer, then released the fiery flame.

  Upward shot the arrow, onward flew the dart. It was decked with owl feathers, striped wings to aid its upward flight. The point he had carved with care, hardened in the crackling fire. Kojo’s son watched the shot disappear, all there craned their necks to see. But only black night met our gazes, only darkness filled the sky. In time folks began to chatter, wondering loudly how far up the smallest star, how long must be the shot to reach that height. Kojo’s son alone stood silent, black eyes ever on the hollow darkness, his gaze still patient, waiting. One by one the others gave up, went to seek their soft feather beds. Kojo’s son silent stood, still on one foot, patient, waiting. Kommi and I stayed behind, looking up at Ukko’s night. How long passed, it was hard to say. Kommi had just nodded off when I felt my breath catch. I was uncertain at first, but then the twinkle grew.

  It was the star. The brightness gained in size as it gained in speed. Rousing Kommi, I sent him running to the house to get the cooking pot, black as pitch. Stumbling, stumping along close behind him came our servants, sleepy eyed and rubbing faces, one foot still in a dream. All alone, by the doorway, waited our girl, the swan-necked one.

  From the sky, like a snowball, came the bright enchanted star. In its centre, we could soon see, was the arrow of Kojo’s son, owl feathers fluttering fast. Kommi placed the fateful cauldron, found the most propitious spot. Like a downy goose it landed, splashed down in the blackened bowl. We gathered around it eagerly, our breaths held, our hands shaking.

  The star glimmered, but we could see it was fading. The arrow pierced its very centre. It lit our curious faces as we gazed into the pot as into a prophetic pool. Something of its celestial nature bathed our minds with hopes and dreams, dazzled our wits with thoughts most high. But it glowed a little less with each pulsating twinkle, and at long last, accompanied by our sighs, the light went out and we were once more in the dark. Nay, in the dawn; for the sun foretold its rising with a growing golden hue in the east. Kojo’s son stood on two feet and asked once more, ‘Will you give me your daughter now, the swanlike one to be my bride, to set the kettle in my homestead, make the fire glow warm and bright?’

  Kommi gave one last look upon the cauldron black. ‘You have accomplished a great deed, but I will only give my daughter if you can complete the next: Walk one day upon knife points, walk another upon axe blades, both those days upon the sharp points—prove the love you have for her.’ The eyes of Kojo’s son glittered darkly in the dawn light, but his white teeth flashed in the gloom. He said not a word, but nodded slowly, turned and bent his steps for home.

  We all took up the great cauldron, carried it upon poles hoisted across strong backs. We let it cool the day and night, and still the next morning the ember smoked. The arrow, blackened by the flames, still stood upright in its heart. Kommi at last gave a pull upon its darkened length, gingerly testing the temperature before grasping firmly. It turned to ashes in his hand, all but one singed owl feather, the rest just sooty charcoal dust. He took the heart of the dead star, wrapped it in a rough old cloth, gave it to his swanlike daughter sitting silent by the hearth. We all gaped at the dead star’s centre, at the lump of blackened coal. I will never know whether in its depths she saw the eyes of Kojo’s dark-haired son.

  People came from all the farmsteads, came to see the wonder dark. They gathered round in bright sunlight, or sought the hearth light in the shadows. None could say a greater wonder had been found in all this land than the star pierced by the arrow by the young man on one foot. Those who had seen the arched bow, seen the shot aimed for the sky, traded stories for good olut when abroad at market times. Silent in her accustomed corner, our daughter with her swanlike ways brooded on the star before her, but never spoke a word on it.

  Kojo’s son, the strongest of bowmen, spent his days out in the woods, gathering stumps of widest girth, yoking his bull to the roots. Weeks went by and still he gathered, chopping up the gnarly wood. High outside his new-built cookhouse he piled the wood of ancient trees. When the crisp fall leaves were turning, he turned at last to build the forge. He rolled a rock down from the mountains to give his blows a base, called upon a wizened servant to be the hands upon the bellows. From the farmstead of his father, he gathered all the bits of metal, rusty blades and pitted kettles left in dust and in neglect. All the pieces, all the iron went into the smithy’s pot. Then the two men stoked the fire, got the flames a crackling red, orange tongues shooting forth.

  From the forge, such a sound came a-ringing across the valley, over the mountain and to our home, ringing for the newly born smithy who had his grueling work to do. Long he pounded, long the fires blew, long the heat and hammers waved under the cooling sky. Talk arose across the valleys about the frenzied work of him who sought the swanlike maiden. Every tongue was wagging, offering opinions and local wisdom. But swanlike rested our daughter at the hearth, quiet with her simple tasks. Never a word she spoke. Sometimes she gazed in silence at the charred heart of the star, but she never offered her assessment, never had a word to say.

  At night in bed I would turn to Kommi, prod him to made some kind of comment. ‘What do you think he does there? Will he come for our little one?’ Kommi always groaned and muttered, ‘What will be, will come to be.’ I could say later that I knew, that my heart held some tremulous whisper of what lay ahead, but all I had was a foreboding, dark as the raven’s smoky wing that brushes the highest limbs of the forest when it glides in its hushed flight.

  About the time of autumn harvest, when the nuts began to fall, when the last wheat had been threshed and stored, the hammer fell
silent and every head turned. All the months of gathering wood, of seeking out iron where it lay fallow, all the weeks of pounding, pounding, until it seemed Ilmarinen himself had taken up residence—ended one clear and propitious day. And Kojo’s son walked forth throughout the valley in the crisp autumn air, calling on his friends and neighbors, exhorting every one who was there to bring forth all their iron hatchets and every knife of every size. They gathered all their sharpest points, brought them to the fields of Kojo’s son, to the furrows of the dark-haired one.

  No crops grew upon his fields in the brittle autumn morn, only well-honed blades of iron pointing ever heavenward. All the folk had gathered too, brought their biting tips to pasture, stayed to see the feat of strength, the raven-haired boy would no doubt carry out that day. No one else would dare the tasks, no one else would even try to win the swanlike beauty’s hand. None but he would walk the field, cross the cutting turf of iron. We too gathered there that first day, Kommi standing at my side. All the brothers, all the sisters, all left their chores behind. Alone the swanlike daughter sat in silence by the hearth. She would not depart our homestead, would not leave our warming fire.

  The heavens shone down on Kojo’s son who strode forth on his new shoes. Weeks he had been forging these shoes, hammering the iron to shape the toes. Now he stood before us all, white teeth gleaming in the sun. He called us all to witness, called on Kommi to repeat the challenge. One day to walk upon knife points, another upon the blades of hatchets. Iron yes, but thin and brittle—why did no one call it madness? Why did none speak out that day? Why did no one call it folly to win a swanlike maiden that way?

  Coal-black were the eyes of that one as he trod upon the knives. Gasps were drawn and mumbling doubts poured forth—would the shoes withstand the blades? Kojo’s son with sprightly mien crossed the new-sown field of points, turned and wandered back and forth as if it were a daily task. Admiration poured forth from mouths once grudging, more accustomed to finding fault. No one there from any village had anything but good to say about the korppi, Kojo’s son, and his well-hewn smithing skills. Kommi watched with admiration and I could not stop myself from wondering almost aloud at the strength of those iron shoes that day. If the swanlike daughter had watched this, would she still sit silently by? Would she cheer to see the young man triumph in this mighty feat?

  All the day he wandered back and forth over the hastily plowed field of knives. Across the valley the clang of metal rang out, an echo of his weeks of smithing by the glowing fire of the forge. Only when the red sun had slipped behind the mountain that divided his valley from ours, did he cease from his labors and step down from the sharpened blades. Then glad hands welcomed him there, passed him plenty of mugs of taari to speed recovery from that day. Many beheld the remarkable shoes, forged from every scrap of iron over the long pounding weeks past. Many marveled at the surface, mottled now with bladepoints’ ire, felt the rough pocked surface, found it a suitable reward for his daylong toil. It was a quick decision to build a fire, a taste of celebration, but no fire burned as bright as the light in the eyes of Kojo’s son. Kojonen himself was there, propped on his young son’s arm. The dark of the night and the long day’s deed dared by his raven-haired son seemed to leach all his strength away.

  All night we sat by the fire. All night the folk celebrated the great deed and spoke well of the morrow. I could only think of my white-necked daughter, silent at home.

  Came the morning and everyone stirred. All gathered to see the second day, the second task. Bleary-eyed they greeted the dawn, rubbing faces reddened by the bonfire’s warmth. Sprightly came the raven-haired one, eager for the new day’s task. Once again his iron shoes were strapped on his feet, once again the local folk planted their sharp points, axes springing from the ground. Once again the field of iron stretched out across the valley and the clang of iron on iron rang out in the still autumn air. Back and forth across the blades, the dark son of Kojo strode. Hour after hour went by, accompanied only by the ringing echo and the furtive talk of neighbors.

  It was a little past midday, when the sun had passed its zenith, that we heard the crack. We had become accustomed to the ringing rhythm of his steps, back and forth, crissing and crossing the field of axe blades in the weak autumn light. Crack—discordant across the valley, it grabbed our ears like an impatient mother, got our attention, brought us ‘round. It was the weakness he could not hide, the flaw in his metal working.

  He was no smith after all. He had surely done well, as well as he might with determination and hard work. But skill—had he asked, would any have known? Would Ilmarinen himself have been able to craft such shoes? Perhaps. The damage was done, the shoe was cracked, clanking as he stepped across the axe points, yet his stride slowed not one whit. All eyes were watchful, fixed upon the raven boy, as he continued on his journey. Grim-faced now he strode onward, eyes and shoes flashing bright. As the sun began to fall, still he limped across the blades. When at last the second crack rang out across the steel-plowed fields, even Kojo himself shook his head sadly, for surely the raven-haired one must yield. Too much to bear the sharp-edged garden, too much to bear the axes’ points.

  Kojo’s son paused but a moment, then regained his halting steps. Though his pace was hampered now by two rough shoes that clanked and rang, on he went with determination, on his way toward the sundown. In silence we waited, our breaths as one, watching the red steps across the land. And not until the sun had dipped behind the hills did he stop.

  All the mothers gathered near, crowded round the motherless boy. Not a word did he speak, not a tear fell from his eyes. But the red path of the day dried dark on the axe point field. We could see the trail of rusty flecks leading back and forth across the meadow. His eyes glittered. The task had been accomplished, although a mighty price was paid. Gentle hands reached for linen, murmuring mothers spread their hands, ointments came from every corner, the cry went out across the lands. But Kojo’s son would not allow them, would not let them seal and bind his wounds, until he had addressed my Kommi, asked for the hand of the swanlike one. He stood upon his painful wounds, looked my Kommi in his eyes. ‘Will you give me your daughter now, the swanlike one to be my bride, to set the kettle in my homestead, make the fire glow warm and bright?’

  Kommi gave one last look upon the field, axes sprouting shiny, axes harvested and on their way home once more. ‘You have accomplished a great deed, but I will only give my daughter if you can complete the next: Swim the stagnant pond of darkness, find the pike within its depths. Bring the gold-finned one to our home, bright scales for the mother of the bride. Only then will you have the snow bride, only then the swanlike one.’ Kojo’s son nodded fiercely, turned his back and strode away. Collapsed then her father upon a wood chair, gave in to his weary thoughts. Murmuring mothers soothed his bleeding, singing songs of iron’s birth. Kommi took my hand in his, turned our steps toward home, while eager neighbors stoked the bonfire yet again. At our hearth, the swanlike one bowed her head upon our return, asked no questions, stirred the fire. Did she know what lay ahead? Did she know the raven’s heart?

  The first soft dusting of winter’s blanket fell the morn that he set out, Kojo’s son for the darkened pool, silent now with furtive cold. Winter’s calling card arrived and he set out to swim the depths, to search the murky waters for the golden pike. There were those who traveled with him, those who bore the nets and carried the bucket of lard, ready for the task. Kommi dressed and had his gruel, set out for the banks with others, wore the elk fur round his ears. I could not bring myself to leave the side of my swanlike beauty young, part from her glowing ghostly hair. My heart leapt to see her at the hearth, a hand reaching to stir the kettle, the other with a needle poised. So I sank down on the bench, took my share of daily mending. Silently our needles bobbed in the failing daylight of the late year, under Ilmatar’s frigid sighs, far from Näkki’s cruel depths.

  Try as I might to keep my mind as busy as my finger
s, my eyes would stray repeatedly to the boiling surface of the kettle. In its tiny waves, I saw the lapping surface of the pool, saw our friends gathered on the bank as Kojo’s son stripped himself. On the surface of the kettle, I saw the young man with raven hair smear his body with the lard, cover all the pale white flesh, protect it from the icy waters, sure to chill the corbie’s skin. On the banks the older men stamped their feet, passed the bottle to and fro, blew on hands chapped with redness, then thrust them back into furry pockets. The young man with hair as black as night shivered on the gloomy shore, but he only paused a moment before leaping forward to plunge into the shadowy waves.

  All this I saw in the kettle’s darkness, all this I saw in our own snug home, the swanlike beauty at my side, my fated daughter on the bench. Her needle never faltered, and she never lost a stitch. Did she know, had she guessed, how her luck was thrown that day?

  In the waters of the deep pool, Kojo’s son dove through murky waves, kicking like a summer frog, twisting like a weasel swiftly through the depths, to the bottom where the pike lay in winter’s silent waiting. Did I really see him wrestle with the golden shining one? Did I see him push off from the muddy bottom, one hand thrust in the gasping gills, the other grasping wide spread fins? Did I see the two rise, twisting, to the broken water’s surface? Did I see the others, eager, gather up the fishing nets, spread the knotted fibres for the dark-haired son of Kojo? Did I see them wrap the wrestler in the rough wool blankets then?

  Perhaps it was only in my mind’s eye that I saw these wondrous things, but it was but a short time later that the young one came back here. Kommi did not meet my gaze when he came through the door with the raven one behind him, Kojo’s son with heavy burden. On the table laid he the pike, the golden one still gasping his life out until at last he lay still. Not a word did they exchange, Kommi silent as the grave, Kojo’s son with a grim smile. Kommi reached into the larder, brought forth a foaming mug to share. Sat beside the black-haired young one, looked his age and something more.